A Rant inspired by Ms C Houghton

My friend asked me recently if I enjoyed someone's preaching. A perfectly simple question to which my simple answer would be: "yes".

However, it actually started me thinking about what preaching is all about and whether or not we're supposed to enjoy it at all. In all honesty the question might be better framed: "How did you find X's preaching?" then I could employ all manner of adjectives to it; passionate, inspirational, informed, intelligent, witty, patronising, derivative, wishy-washy, authoritative... and so the list goes on. But is my opinion of it all that important? Do preacher's measure the success of a sermon by whether or not people enjoyed it? By the amount of amens and smiling faces. Personally, I don't listen to sermons for their entertainment value but I recognise that they can and do entertain. Sermons are at worst an affirming message that helps one keep that stiff upper lip and at best an attempt to convey someone's excitement about God to some eager listeners. But here's the difference. I am racking my brain to remember even one of the three points our mutual friend made in the preach I was asked about, what I do remember is the passion, the honesty and the heartfelt concern of the guy who preached it and these qualities continue to pour out of him whether he's preaching or not. Did I enjoy it? I don't even remember but I really really like the guy who delivered it and he's welcome to get involved in my life. I like to read C.S. Lewis but C.S. Lewis never gave me a hug when I felt unhuggable.

So my final answer? Did I enjoy the preaching? Sure, but I'm enjoying getting to know the guy behind it a lot more.

Mair the moarra...

Excerpt

The streets swarmed with people cocooned in metal starting and stopping at will, someone’s will anyway, all staring ahead at the car in front or the road and the next hazard on and on till journey’s end when the staring doesn’t stop but it’s now at that box that brought us all up and like a crazed mother can’t bear to see us go so panders to our baser instincts so we’ll give it our money (that’s what it eats, garnished with time) And the staring continues till something happens but the box knows nothing ever does and even the things that do happen end up with us back asking the box to show us what happened over and over again from all different angles that make everything ok because now we know what happened which is all we wanted; to see it and to see that other people are helping so we don’t have to.

More tomorrow...

It was funny at first...

I was at the pub quiz the other week. One of the questions was: "What type of bird is roadrunner from the roadrunner cartoons?" Turns out he's a cuckoo. A lot of people had written down that he's an ostrich. That made me snort with laughter. A tiny ostrich on the wrong continent? And it makes me chuckle a bit still. An ostrich? Come on.

However, I began to realise that the very people who think that roadrunner is an ostrich will be sitting on juries, teaching our children, investing our money, electing MPs. Aye, it's not so funny when you suddenly realise that people are stupid and they're running the world! They police our streets, prosecute criminals, drive buses and deliver our mail! They even write blogs and some of them read them. We're at the mercy of idiots and fools! AAAAAHHHHHHH!

More tomorrow...

If

Kipling keeps it real. 

IF you can keep your head when all about you  Are losing theirs and blaming it on you, If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you, But make allowance for their doubting too; If you can wait and not be tired by waiting, Or being lied about, don't deal in lies, Or being hated, don't give way to hating, And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise: If you can dream - and not make dreams your master; If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim; If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster And treat those two impostors just the same; If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools, Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken, And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools: If you can make one heap of all your winnings  And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss, And lose, and start again at your beginnings And never breathe a word about your loss; If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew To serve your turn long after they are gone, And so hold on when there is nothing in you Except the Will which says to them: 'Hold on!' If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue, ' Or walk with Kings - nor lose the common touch, if neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you, If all men count with you, but none too much; If you can fill the unforgiving minute With sixty seconds' worth of distance run, Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it, And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son!

Position

Don't look down? Whatever mate. I love to look down at the herding hoi polloi and their lack of choice. See them bleat and follow. See me jealous, aloof by choice yet *sigh* how comfortable you all look.

More tomorrow...

The Young Team

Smash! Crack!

Bom Bom Bom!

With nicknames

I heard twenty years ago

Let’s go!

Same chat

Same names

Same fists

Same policemen and screws

Shake their heads as they

Remember turning the key

On his father

More tomorrow...